


Noel

by elephant_eyelash



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Dancing, F/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-27
Updated: 2012-02-27
Packaged: 2017-10-31 19:10:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/347439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elephant_eyelash/pseuds/elephant_eyelash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas, 1916.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Noel

It was his first Christmas without his family and he couldn’t help but think of them. He tried to lose himself in the crowd of the servants ball, to smile, mingle, crack jokes. But everywhere he heard Patricia’s laugh, saw Seamus’ rushing through the twirling figures pretending to be a bird, and Owen coo as he got handed fists of brightly coloured wrapping paper. As much as all the servants here saw Downton as a big family, he wasn’t a part of it yet, and he wasn’t sure he ever would be. Unwritten rules permitted him from getting too close.

Across the hall he spotted Sybil laughing with her sisters. She caught his eye and smiled.

She seemed to blend into the hall, her dark hair bleeding into the soft candlelight. Her red dress became a rush of colour, a bauble. He wondered absentmindedly if she knew just how beautiful she was, how softly she demanded attention. He took another sip of gin.

In the middle of the hall a great fir glittered with golden tinsel and candles, rocking horses stood atop twirls of holly and ivy. It was all so strange and beautiful that in between the stirrings of the violins and the hot gin Branson wondered if he’d wandered into a dream. This was the Christmases that they showed on the front of the cards, the Christmases of childhood dreams, yet he still missed them. He missed telling Patricia stories, missed playing football with Seamus and bouncing Owen up and down on his knee. This all felt so brittle somehow.

“You don’t look as if you’re enjoying yourself.” She said, quietly, beside him. He hadn’t even realised she was there.

He looked at her, tipsy, a sad smile on his lips. “Are you?”

“Very much.” She said. “It’s nice for us all to be together like this, don’t you think?”

One night a year— it’s a symbol, nothing else. But he didn’t say that. She was still so young in some ways. And she was too beautiful tonight. She was part of a wider illusion and he couldn’t see her shattered, not with that dress on and with that smile.

She looked to her side, feeling uncomfortable at his silence. “Do you dance?”

“I used to.” He said. “Back in Ireland.”

“Might you want to dance with me?” She said, tilting her head sideways, and she laughed anxiously at his befuddled expression. “I’m not as good as Mary, but I promise to not step on your toes.”

She had already taken his hand. They milled about comfortably among the other couples, temporary partnerships between servants and masters for the night, but just tonight.

“You dance well.” She said, smiling.

“Er…” He started, and he felt a weird heat creep up his neck at seeing her smile at him like that. “Thank you.”

If this was any other girl he would have kissed her right there and then. But the illusion was an illusion, a trap of false mirrors and smoke and Christmas candlelight. His hand on her back (so light) and the blush he could spot behind her ears were for tonight, just tonight, Branson. Remember she is a thing your hands cannot touch for long, because boys from Faithfull Place do not touch girls with skin like cream and dressed in red velvet for long because otherwise they become dirty, they break.

They seperated, and she swept herself away in ribbons of red light, and he shattered again and again and again.


End file.
